


Recoil

by ruethereal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why shouldn't Harry fall in love with either twin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> A riddikulusly old work-in-progress. That is, from after the _book_ not film release of _Deathly Hallows_. Set pre-epilogue (more like disregards the epilogue).

If Harry hadn’t been expecting it, the soft knock may have gone unanswered.  But he left his perch on the couch and flung open the front door.  He caught only a brief glimpse of the ever-bleak square of Grimmauld Place before a hot, desperate mouth covered his own with enough force to push him back into the hall.  Whether the kiss lasted for two minutes or ten, he didn’t know.  But as George pulled away, Harry murmured a small greeting.

“I’ve missed you.”

The older man nodded, laying his forehead on and mumbling into Harry’s shoulder.

“And you.”

Harry felt the heat of George’s tears spreading on his sleeve but decided he didn’t care.  They both missed Fred, though admittedly for different reasons—the war had cost George his twin and best friend and Harry his playful and innocent, albeit secret, lover.

 

  
Shortly after the Final Battle, number twelve, Grimmauld Place became Harry’s permanent home.  He distinctly remembered George’s absence when the Weasleys threw him a belated house-warming party.  The gathering was bittersweet, the Wizarding World still torn between celebrating the fall of the Dark Forces and mourning the sacrifices made.  And though Harry wasn’t trying to delude himself into thinking one twin could replace the other, he was sure George’s tall, freckly, blue-eyed appearance would have lifted his spirits.

But Harry wasn’t disappointed for long.  George had visited number twelve scarcely a week later, in the dead of night and alone.  It happened much like this night: Harry answered a quiet knock at the front door only to be met with an urgent kiss.  The lips on his own and the hands gripping his shoulders felt eerily familiar, though he knew they couldn’t belong to Fred.  And surely enough, when the rain-drenched ghost of his lover pulled away, Harry found himself staring up at George, not Fred.  Harry couldn’t remember seeing such a pained expression on the man’s face as George muttered what was both an apology and an explanation.

“He told me once that he was in love with you.  I’m not trying to take his place.”

And that was all Harry needed.  He drew the tall, shivering man into his arms, hugging him fiercely to prove _George_ was the person Harry was thinking of as he poured love into their embrace.  George’s chest, too thin to be healthy, heaved with silent sobs.  Harry realized George’s clothes, though soaked by the rain, were now hot against his cheek: he was crying, too.

They stood grieving together for several long moments before Harry released his hold on George, reached past him, and closed the front door.  He took one of George’s hands in both his own, tugging him gently toward the staircase, and the older man complied.  As Harry led him to the highest landing, he thought about the hand he was grasping.  It felt every bit the same as Fred’s had, but Fred had never held his hands like Harry was the only thing protecting him from… what? Falling?  Drowning?  All the same, Harry squeezed George’s hand as a sign of reassurance.  If George wanted protecting, Harry was more than willing to provide it.

Harry smiled to himself; it seemed he’d never rid of the habit of wanting to save people.  He’d somehow lost all ambition ever since the fall of the Dark Arts, but he’d make George his new purpose—and perhaps his new hope at happiness.

Harry opened the door to Sirius’s bedroom, the one he’d claimed, and directed George to the enormous canopied bed.

“Let’s get you out of these,” he mumbled, gesturing at George’s cold wet clothes.  “Then you can sleep here tonight.”

George nodded mutely and began stripping off his jacket.  Not yet ready to see the twin of Fred’s body exposed, Harry walked to the wardrobe to rummage for pajamas that hopefully fit the taller man.  When he faced the bed again, George was seated on the edge with only his shirt off and his face buried in his hands.  Harry could hear the blood pounding in his ears, feeling a mixture of loss and sympathy.  This wasn’t Fred.  This was George, thinned away to nothing and sickeningly pale.

George was the person to whom Harry would now devote himself.

Harry crossed the room and dropped to his knees before George’s slumped form.  He watched as his trembling hand rested atop the other man’s damp ginger hair.  George lowered his hands from his face, meeting Harry’s concerned gaze, and managed a small smile which Harry returned warmly, relieved George had stopped crying.  Feeling as if he’d lost control of his movements, Harry placed his hands on either side of George’s face, studying it silently.

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

Harry held George’s face steady, learning every detail: the small worry line between his brows, the soft blue eyes disappearing with the flutter of feathery ginger eyelashes, the long freckle-sprinkled nose.  This was George.  He swept a thumb across the thin faintly pink lips, feeling himself drawn to them.  Harry could feel his lips quivering as he brushed them against George’s, could hear George’s breath hiss between his teeth.  He drew back and finally released George’s face, searching for any hint of disgust but seeing only polite interest.

“Is this okay?” Harry whispered.

George grasped both Harry’s upper arms, pulling him up from the floor so Harry stood between his legs.  Gliding his hands down Harry’s arms, George guided Harry’s hands, dwarfed in his, around his neck before wrapping his arms loosely around the younger man’s slim waist.  He peered up at Harry, a sad smile clouding his face.

“We mustn’t do anything more, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widened, his pulse thundering again.  He dropped his arms and made to step back, but George redoubled his hold on Harry’s waist and stared at him, his eyes pleading.  Harry writhed in George’s grip, fighting the dull burn behind his eyelids.

“Harry, it isn't that I don’t want to,” George explained distractedly.  “It can’t start this way, not so soon after Fred.”

Harry was suddenly blinded by rejection and anger, his chest aching so gasping for air gave no relief.

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” he snarled, resuming his efforts to escape from the older man’s arms.  “I was thinking about _you_ , George.”

George turned his face away.

“Harry, I don’t think I could—”

But Harry overrode George’s possible excuses.

“It doesn’t matter that you look the same!” he roared, grabbing George’s face once more and forcing him to meet his gaze.  “You don’t look at me the same way. You don’t hold me the same way.”

At that, George relinquished Harry’s waist, but Harry remained where he stood.  Despite his distress, Harry couldn’t help drowning in those blue depths.  He touched his forehead to George’s, still cold as if he’d only just stepped out of the rain.

“You don’t smell or taste or feel the same,” he whispered.

Harry waited but George stayed silent.  With a growl, he fisted his hands in the damp ginger strands and crushed their mouths together. Harry capitalized on George’s gasp, thrusting his tongue between the parted lips and running it along the roof of the vulnerable mouth. He swallowed George’s moan, feeling the man’s fingers tangle in the hair at his nape.  But one second he was mapping and memorizing George’s mouth, and the next a fierce yank to his hair halted his conquest.

“That’s enough.”

Harry choked back his outburst at the severity of George’s voice and settled on glaring at him.  He whipped his hands back to his sides, making no effort to be gentle; if any hair had parted company with George’s scalp, he made no sign of it.  George’s eyes, full of guilt and confusion, sent an uncomfortable shock down Harry’s spine and his anger lost steam.  He opened his mouth to apologize, but George forestalled him.

“It’s fine, Harry,” he muttered.  “Just not now, please.”

Harry nodded numbly, and his desire to flee overpowered his desire to console, kiss, or even hit the other man.  He strode stiffly to the bedroom door without looking back.  Out on the landing, he silently shut the door before supporting himself against it on one shoulder. Unable to regain breath or focus, Harry absently raised shaky fingers to his lips.

He could still taste George.

Harry dragged his leaden legs, unaware of the steps his missed as he descended the staircase, and entered the first-floor sitting room. Blinking out of his daze, he spotted the couch and collapsed onto it with a small groan.  He stared at the ceiling, imagining George on his bed.  Would he be thinking about Harry?  He curled upon himself, tucking his knees under his chin.  Harry never felt so lonely in a house that wasn’t empty.


	2. Slow Burn

Harry didn’t know if he ever truly fell asleep, too busy wondering why he didn’t feel more humiliated for the way he’d acted.  He had always seen Fred and George as separate people, had been attracted to them for different reasons, but it was Fred who had approached him first, showing any interest in return.  Thinking about Fred’s carefree innocence and George’s gentle intensity, why shouldn’t he fall in love with either twin?

“Harry?”

He bolted upright and spotted George leaning on the doorjamb and holding two steaming mugs.  Harry stared unashamedly; the older man held himself with more poise than his twin had—not that Fred had ever cared to stay still long enough to exercise grace.

“I didn’t know where I’d find you,” George said, giving no indication that he’d noticed the blatant gawking as he joined Harry on the couch and offered one of the mugs.

Harry accepted it gratefully and glanced at the curtained windows.  Gauzy colorless light filtered in through the gaps; the sun hadn’t fully risen yet.  Harry took a sip of the steaming amber liquid and felt his mouth burn.  While resisting the urge to cough, he turned to George questioningly.  The other man smiled serenely, watching Harry over the rim of his own mug.

“Tea and firewhisky,” he explained.

Harry nodded, proceeding carefully as he took a more substantial mouthful.  The alcohol seared his throat, and the heat of it surged to his fingertips.  They sat together drinking in silence as the sitting room gradually brightened.

By the time they had finished their drinks, the heavy emerald velvet curtains (relics of the old number twelve Harry had left out of laziness) were a soft jade and dust motes swirled in the light from them.  Harry sat back against the sofa feeling thoroughly comfortable. Beside him, George gave an equally contented sigh and Harry peeked at him.  He’d always thought Fred attractive, but George sitting mere feet from him—his skin glowing milky and smooth, his hair like molten gold in the sunlight, his willowy frame stretched in ease—was in every sense of the word _beautiful_.

Harry gasped audibly: George was staring back, looking curious.

“Did you look at Fred like that?” George asked mildly.

Harry mouthed wordlessly, his stream of protests muddled by the firewhisky, but George only waved away the would-have-been rebuke with a small smile.

“It’s like you can’t get enough of my face,” George said, as much to himself as to Harry.  “It’s like you're seeing me for the first and last time.”

Quickly lowering his eyes, Harry flushed and replied with a grunt.  “I was thinking that you’re beautiful.”

His confession was met with a deafening silence.  Only able to tolerate a minute of it, Harry faced George again to apologize, his cheeks burning with embarrassment or inebriation or both, but the older man simply sat there grinning.  Harry fell into eyes glittering with obvious amusement and felt his entire face redden.  So absorbed with the eddies of buttery sunlight and the reflection of his own green mixing and shifting in George’s clear blue eyes, Harry jumped when fingers ghosted along his jaw.

“ ‘Beautiful’ is a new one for me,” George laughed, fingers dancing up and down Harry’s throat, across Harry’s cheeks, along Harry’s brow and the iconic scar there.  “What if I called you beautiful?”

“It’d be new for me as well,” Harry mumbled, leaning into George’s touch as his eyes slipped shut.

“What do you want from me, Harry?”

Reluctantly, Harry opened his eyes, afraid to find George sullen and serious again, but the other man was smiling gently and looking genuinely interested in Harry’s answer.  Harry frowned, trying to focus enough to formulate a coherent response, but George’s attention had spread to his collarbone and shoulders.  It was all Harry could do to control the crazy desire to throw himself on the older man to reciprocate the blistering pleasure George had stirred with just his light, fleeting, teasing touches.

To delay his need to provide a decent answer, Harry met and held George’s gaze, then felt a grin tug at his lips.  Behind George’s eyes danced the same threat of impishness Harry had come to expect from Fred: he _knew_ what he was doing to Harry.  Not wanting the other man to go unchallenged, Harry scooted closer until their knees kissed, and he delighted in feeling George jump at the touch.  No longer nervous or inhibited—though he knew not whether from his “Gryffindor courage” or the too-early serving of liquor—Harry lifted a steady hand and pressed his fingers to George’s invitingly parted lips.

“I want _you_ , George.”

George tested Harry’s patience as he silently appraised the younger man with an arched brow and tilted head. Regardless of how little of George he was touching, Harry knew he wasn’t imagining the heat seeping from George’s lips to his fingers and rampaging through his body; he knew it was the scent of George’s skin and hair—a spicy and sweet combination of cinnamon, apple blossom, smoke, and the previous night’s rain—that had him breathing slowly and deeply, at odds with his sprinting heart.  The very sensation of George had him frantically, hopelessly, desperately craving more.  This wasn’t enough.

Just when Harry thought he could wait no longer, George sucked two of his fingers into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth.  Harry’s startled yelp, so loud it hurt his own ears, was met with a triumphant shout of laughter. Harry scowled halfheartedly, wiping his fingers carelessly on the hem of his shirt.

“You were doing it again,” George explained with a chuckle.  “Staring like your life depended on it, I mean.”

“You know, last night you wanted nothing to do with me,” Harry muttered.  “Now, you’re acting like Fred.”

Harry realized far too late that, of all the possible things he could have said, he’d chosen the worst. George’s face instantly turned stony, his glittering eyes now cold and narrowed dangerously.  Harry’s mind froze, his feeble half-formed apologies quelled by George’s stare.  The ensuing silence was suffocating and impenetrable—an eternity of that silence may have come and gone, and still Harry could only sit there wondering if he was better off angering George instead of saddening him.

George stood suddenly and Harry felt the surrounding air grow even frostier.  Harry watched in horrified fascination as George started undoing the buttons of the too-small pajama shirt.

“Wh-what exactly—”

“You’re going to show me _what exactly_ Fred used to do to you, Harry,” George growled.

Despite his predicament, Harry couldn’t help trembling in anticipation as the sound of George’s voice sent a thrill down his spine, nor could he ignore the increasing tightness of his pants when George shrugged out of the shirt.  George stood before him, using a knee to nudge Harry’s legs further apart then stand between them.   Harry shuddered, equally afraid and aroused; if he dared to, he could stick out his tongue and he’d be licking George’s bellybutton.  Harry acted on that thought, closing the infinitesimal gap between his face and George’s abdomen, and licked a short strip of skin an inch above George’s navel.  Harry’s head swam as he felt the muscles beneath George’s hot skin quiver.

He was tasting George again.


End file.
